


Absolute Abandon

by dragonsong (NekoAisu)



Series: Commissioned Works [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Dancing, Drinking, F/F, Fae & Fairies, Fae Magic, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Flirting, Gift Fic, Il Mheg (Final Fantasy XIV), Love Confessions, Mutual Pining, Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Party, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Romantic Fluff, Specific Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), enchanted fae party, trickery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24443170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/dragonsong
Summary: “You are beautiful.”“And you’re inebriated.”
Relationships: Feo Ul & Warrior of Light, Y'shtola Rhul/Warrior of Light
Series: Commissioned Works [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2011288
Kudos: 50





	Absolute Abandon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CheshirePirouette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheshirePirouette/gifts).



> Comm for Cheshire!! Aza is their WoL. ^^
> 
> Tysm for your support!!

There are proverbs about knives and swords and pens, but the combat efficacy of a spectacularly uncomfortable shoe should not be underestimated. Aza was of the opinion that nothing could best a good spell, but the fae have long since proven otherwise. They’re crafty creatures and insatiably curious besides, the craving for new and fun pastimes overriding things like common decency and curfew. It’s due to yet another fickle fancy that she finds herself attending a rather unorthodox masquerade. 

“You’re here! And early, too,” Feo Ul cheers, twirling and casually inching other fae away from her Sapling. “Where  _ is  _ your mask?! Your Lovely Branch went through such  _ effort  _ to look nice for tonight and you─you! You haven’t even a  _ mask!”  _

Aza roots around in her bag for her mask (it hadn’t been forgotten, but simply put away to avoid it being stolen) and comes up empty. She peers into it, rifles around, and mutters curses when no mask is found. “I could have  _ sworn  _ I put it in there.”

Feo Ul sighs, shoulders drooping as they wail, “What a  _ terrible  _ Sapling you are! Leaving your Branch to be beautiful all by myself! Terrible! Horrible! What do you have to say for yourself?!”

“I am sorry?”

“Not good enough!”

Aza opens her mouth to flounder through an attempt to pacify the fuming faery when a voice calls, “Could you not be so cruel to them? What temper you have for your Sapling!”

A few fae flit up beside them, taking delight in teasing Feo Ul while Aza continues digging through her bag. Feo Ul snaps when they suggest simply going in without a mask, asking if their “ridiculous mortal” could withstand the magics woven into being for the occasion. “My Sapling is not to be trifled with! Begone with you!”

They huff, pressing tiny hands to Aza’s face and pulling a mask into being with nothing else other than some further (very childish) curses. The scent of pollen is strong, but not enough to make her sneeze, the edges of petals visible along her cheeks when she looks down. Feo Ul drifts backward, to the left, to the right, up and down and diagonal before declaring, “That will have to do! Now, into the masquerade you go!”

Aza opens her mouth to reply, blinking on reflex when her vision lights up in bright blue and purple, and does not manage to speak a word before she is among strangers. She closes her mouth, uncomfortably aware of the eyes on her from curious attendees, and settles on attempting to become a wallflower. She glances at a clock. The second hand ticks slowly onward. It will not be the next bell for quite some time. She eyes the snack table. 

Having hurried from among Urianger’s worryingly expansive collection of books to Titania’s palace before supper, she was counting on the presence of the sweet snacks the fae so enjoy. Shuffling out of her corner and, by relation, into the spotlight, a partygoer slides up beside her, bowing shallowly and barely avoiding spilling their suspiciously pink champagne. They smile, most of it blocked out by their mask’s swirling tree design. “Care for company?”

“If you are offering,” she replies, awkwardly holding out her arm. They link theirs with hers and there is a slight ripple in their appearance, height scaling to match hers rather than tower above. Their arms are tinged a soft green where she can see them through gossamer organza. She wonders if their costume is a glamour, the fit just as ethereal as before. 

Her gown is less than comfortable, all be told. She made it to her own specifications and knows the sizing to be all correct, but there is a certain level of discomfort that comes with wearing thoroughly structured clothing when the grand majority of your life is spent in more casual pieces. She walks casually enough, but it’s the step-step-turn of weaving across the ballroom that causes her to trip, shoe buckle catching on the lowest rung of her crinoline and turning a spin to a very impromptu dip. She flushes brightly and her partner laughs. Their mouth is a void of light and color. She thinks them rather charming in an odd sort of way. 

They set her back on her feet and someone else cuts in. They smile at her with too wide of a mouth. They are made of miscellaneous angles, a direct contrast to the tree-masked being from before, and prove disconcerting to the point where them taking her hand is nearly expected to bring pain. “May I?”

Aza nods, not trusting herself to reply in any way other than stepping back and finding a balcony to get some air. They sweep her into the dance in full, a hand on hers and another on her waist. Other couples are flashes of bright color and brighter laughter─and all of them are very obviously fae in some shape or form. Some bear horns or oddly shaped ears, extra eyes peering curiously out from behind expansive masks on others. 

Dancing allows her to ignore a good portion of that which seems unsettling. She focuses on the steps and the birdlike tilt of her partner’s head as they stare. They are surely no peacock and lack all grace to be a swan. She supposes a bird of prey may be fitting when they smile again and it’s all sharp ( _ too _ sharp) teeth. They twirl for what feels like a small eternity before Aza is spun off the floor and stumbles right up to the refreshments. Looking back at the dancefloor, she cannot spot either of her previous companions. The corner she had been in before seems malms away. 

She takes time to catch her breath. The food looks… curious. She truly has no other word for it when shimmering, sugarspun frogs cohabitate with strawberries within a fountain of scalding chocolate. The punchbowl is a pond unto itself, ice cubes forgone in favor of ephemeral fish formed from frost and fae ingenuity. When she pours herself a glass, they scatter from the ladle to hide amongst slices of floating citrus. 

The plates do not want to let her hold them. They roll down the perimeter of the table and clatter whenever she attempts to grab one, the entirety of the cutlery assembly watching with rapt attention as she chases them down, and then neatly stack one on top of the other in an orderly little hill the moment she puts her hands on the slowest of dessert plates. When she turns to grab a cake, the finger foods have shuffled. She snatches up a few that catch her fancy, every blink bringing new and wonderful treats near to her reach. It’s only when she’s loaded up her plate─and what a small plate it is, being barely wider than her palm─that she seeks a place to sit. 

Tables are a lonely affair. Most are empty, the few inhabited having gathered crowds. Aza believes the one spinning starlight into the air  _ must  _ be Urianger. Maybe. She finds it’s an inconsequential thing to notice when her punch tastes like a microchu’s tail (not that she would know what that tastes like). It’s sweet and floral, almost powdery against her tongue, and smells sharply like alcohol while lacking all burn. She is not sure how much she should imbibe, but that worry is dashed the moment she tries a startlingly yellow puff. It’s  _ spicy.  _ Painfully so. She downs the rest of her punch and shoves half a teacake in her mouth in pursuit of relief. The frosting mutes it to a dull burn and an ache in her sinuses, but the drink makes her vision swim for a moment. 

She blinks, reaching under her mask to rub at the bridge of her nose. When she looks up, a moon-masked faery is there to offer their company. Their wings are tucked flat to their back and easily longer than Aza’s entire arm. They dip their head to her, speaking in something adjacent to tongues when they ask, “What a night to be lonely. Mind if I impose?”

“Not in the least,” she replies. “Your name?”

“That is  _ quite  _ rude to ask before volunteering your own,” they chastise. “What lackluster manners you have.”

Aza opens her mouth and thinks better of it, taking time to give a more polite response. “I am Feo Ul’s Sapling. It was not mine intent to offend.”

They laugh and Aza can see scaling peeking out from behind their mask. “Not your true name, but a name nonetheless. You may call me Lune,” they say, mirth coloring their words. “What brings a mortal to Titania’s court?”

“I─” Aza stops, frowning. Why was she here? It was a party. She had an invitation. She… was dancing. “I am here to dance.”

“Care for a partner?”

She nods, standing after finishing off the last of her cake. “If you are comfortable leading, that would be lovely, Lune.”

They take her hand and sweep her onto the floor, easily navigating them to a comparatively empty patch between three other couples. The music swells, a fiddle reigning over most others, and Aza finds herself more than happy to dance for a few more songs. It’s only when her feet begin to hurt than she searches for a clock. She cannot spot one from between throngs of otherworldly revelers and soon forgets when Lune releases her to pivot right into someone else’s arms. 

Her newfound partner huffs a laugh, hands falling into place for the waltz. They are beautiful in an untouchable sort of way, but also very mortal. Their ears swivel to catch strains of music and conversation, silvered hair covering the seam between mask and skin, and Aza wonders how long it took to inlay each painted star with a tiny tumbled crystal. She settles on a terribly ineloquent greeting of, “You are beautiful.”

“And you’re inebriated.”

Their voice is nice, Aza finds. As is their laugh. And the warmth of their hands radiating through the fabric of her gown. It seems like every time the Mystel so much as  _ breathes,  _ Aza is only ever more drawn to them. She asks, “Your name, if I may? I am Feo Ul’s Sapling.”

They seem contemplative before replying, “And I am a friend. You may be more familiar with me. I would not mind it from a gem such as you.”

“So I could impose upon you for another dance, perhaps?”

“Without question.”

They do dance more. Aza’s feet continue to hurt throughout their abandon until she loses a shoe. Her mysterious star-masked friend-of-sorts snorts. “Pay it no mind. We have the entire night left.”

“Oh,” she answers, feeling slightly dim for wanting to leave and search for it when there are yet many hours left with which to spend at their side. “If you insist.”

They nod approvingly. “T’would be pleasant to have your company.”

Aza falls back into the dance, though her steps get progressively clumsier from imbalance and distraction, until her other foot begins to protest her revelry and send pain shooting up into her leg. She excuses herself to sit and wonders if she will see them again. Their mask is beautiful as it is, but their pale skin and moonstone-like eyes were even more captivating. They felt familiar, too.  _ “I am a friend,”  _ they had said. It is hard to question their cavalier attitude when the introduction fits without fault.

She sighs. It is lonely without them at her side, but it is likely quite late as well. She stands and asks the nearest partygoer, “Could you tell me what time it is?”

“Oh, much too early,” they reply, fiddling with the feathers on their mask. “It’s barely been a bell since Aenc Thon’s performance!”

She frowns. It feels like it has been much longer. She asks another person and gets further nonanswers. The walls are full of flowers and scrolling filigree roots, but no clocks. A Fuath asks if she is in need of better music, rather than the time. A faery says, “Well, I have no idea and no care to find out!” 

She walks down the hallway to the balcony five times. She always turns around halfway. It’s during one of these loops that the friend approaches her again.

“Just the person I was looking for,” they greet. Their mask is slightly askew. Aza’s brows furrow and she neglects a response because those clan marks are not  _ Mystel.  _ Those are Miqo’te! And the only Miqo’te she knows on the First that would risk a fae party is—

“Y’shtola?”

They startle. “Careful with names. I do not remember giving you mine.”

Aza exhales, relieved that the person she has been so fond of truly is a friend, and then remembers that Y’shtola knows her. They know each other’s names. That should be a natural thing and yet she was cautioned and held with suspicion for knowing such a commonly held fact. “It is Aza.”

Y’shtola humms. “That is a pleasant name.”

“You know me.”

“From dancing, I know.” Aza continues thinking, upset visible in the turn on her mouth and lashing of her tail. Y’shtola places a hand on her elbow and asks, “Shall we step out for some air?”

Aza agrees and allows Y’shtola to steer her toward the balcony. The doors open without touch as they approach and the night breeze cools some of Aza’s growing anxiety. She breathes deeply. “Thank you.” She chances a glance at her companion before blurting, “May I kiss you?”

Y’shtola thinks on it for a long moment, black gloved fingers tapping on the railing as she deliberates. Her voice is uncommonly reserved when she says, “My apologies, but there is someone I am fond of above all others. It’d not be fair to you, if I allowed it.”

Aza’s face falls. “May I ask who?”

“Someone who hung the stars for me.”

“Oh. That is lovely.”

They lapse into silence. Aza pushes off the railing and offers an arm. Y’shtola takes it without question. The Miqo’te smiles, beads woven into her hair clacking gently, and says, “Thank you.”

Aza smiles back and they enter the palace once more. As she walks down the hall, she notices a clock. The hour has moved down a few marks, but it has paused before midnight. The minute hand is frozen. The second hand is tick-tick-ticking at a gilded  _ 59. _

Oh. Something is not quite right here. If anything,  _ nothing  _ is quite right. “Y’shtola, I—I need to find my shoe. Excuse me.”

She ducks away from her friend (and unwitting crush) to search for her missing shoe. She wishes to leave and to do so immediately. 

There is no luck around the dance floor and even less luck searching while on it and cutting between couples. The tables are all empty underneath and every chair is spotlessly clean. It’s only after she checks beneath the skirt of a very well-dressed bar counter that she finds it. The sole is worn beyond what would result from a couple hours of well-intentioned dancing, but the fae are known for keeping tempo with songs far faster than those of Ishgard or Ala Mhigo. It should not be too strange, she thinks, to have worn shoes. The leather is far too creased to be from a single night of merriment. 

The clock chimes. 

Wear like that is not the work of a simple  _ bell  _ on a dancefloor. She had been outside. The moon had been rising, still. Y’shtola would likely not have attended a fae party unless Aza was out for longer than planned. 

She slips her shoe back on and rolls her ankle. Her legs are a touch sore, but it is nothing out of the ordinary. Standing, she waves off further offers of dance and drink from fae of all shapes and sizes as she navigates toward the corner she had started in. It feels nearly akin to those boardgames Lyna had gifted Ryne where she has to roll a die and move a certain number of steps, narrowly avoiding catastrophe by sheer luck. It feels like she barely managed to eke out a favorable round when she steps and… she’s back by the snack table. On the opposite side of the room. 

She tries again. 

In the space of half a step, she’s somehow down the hall instead. In the next, she’s in the center of the dancefloor and being pulled into a wild, witless waltz. She falls into it with a start, heart hammering even if she looks for all the world like this is exactly what she intended. This isn’t  _ right.  _ The more she looks around, the more sure she becomes. Her partner spins her to another and soon enough she is lost among a sea of smugly staring masks. 

She fights against the dance, lets go of hands and refuses to follow, steps out of order and on toes and talons. She tries to break the spell one purposeful fumble at a time, but the fae simply adjust and follow along like it’s  _ fun.  _ They laugh, grinning into champagne flutes and at each other, as if nothing is at all amiss. Aza  _ fumes.  _

So much for having a mask and protection from illusion! She knows she will be having words with Feo Ul after this. 

Having had quite enough of the charade, she stomps very pointedly on her partner’s foot and ducks out of their hold when they hop backward to nurse their hurt. Cutting swiftly across the ballroom, she kicks off a shoe, adjusts her grip, and throws it as hard as she possibly can straight at the clock stuck ticking at minute fifty-nine. It connects with the crystalline face and shears straight through it, tearing the silvered numbers to shreds like they were never there. She hears bells-worth of ringing and chiming echo all at once. It is utter cacophony when the fae begin wailing. 

“What a terrible little mortal you are!”

“Oh, the time! The  _ time!  _ Why would you do that?! We had all night!”

Aza huffs, ignoring the criticisms to hurry toward Y’shtola. The sorceress is blinking, a hand coming up to rub at her face when she hits her mask. She frowns. 

“We must away,” Aza calls, grabbing her by the hand and jogging down the hallway toward the grand entrance to Titania’s palace. Her other hand is knotted in the material of her skirt, holding it up and out of the way as they take the stairs two at a time, and decidedly colder than the one Y’shtola holds. 

“I’ve no recollection of being there for more than a moment,” Y’shtola begins, brows furrowing above her mask, before stopping. “You were late.”

“And you charmed,” Aza shoots back, slowing their pace once they’re nearly off the palace grounds.

Y’shtola’s cheeks color lightly. “My apologies. The intent was to ensure your safety, not cause you undue harm.”

Aza laughs, more relieved than aught else, and is barely thinking when she says, “The most damage I took was learning your heart belongs to another.”

“I─what?” Y’shtola stops walking. She blinks. Aza nods awkwardly. “Heavens forfend,” she groans, “I must have said something truly ambiguous. Though, that is likely the better outcome.”

“I will not press for details,” Aza replies, “but I do wonder who could have hung the stars for you. One of the Night’s Blessed, perhaps? I will admit, I am envious of them.”

Y’shtola reaches up and unties her mask, holding it in her hands. She stares at it without seeing. “They are not. Though I am beginning to wonder if they are in possession of all of their wits. What an obvious hint.”

“The stars?”

“Yes.”

Aza thinks, beginning to pace before wincing. Her foot pain has only grown since breaking the illusion. Y’shtola presses a spell into her arm, aether flowing to the source of the hurt and soothing it. “Thank you.”

Y’shtola smiles and it’s such an intimate look that Aza has to keep herself from simply asking if she could have a chance, if she hung the sun. The little dimples on the sides of her mouth, the curve of her lips, the twinkle in her eye─all of it is  _ breathtaking.  _ Beneath the light of the moon, Y’shtola truly could fit right in with many of the fae. She is just as ethereally beautiful. 

Aza pauses. 

The light of the moon. The moon now able to be seen because the Light is banished. The one who did that was her. The one who hung the stars is… “Me. You like  _ me.” _

Y’shtola nods, though it is less sure than her usual easy confidence. “That I do.”

Aza feels slightly dumb when she says, “Wow.”

“You said you were envious of yourself, Aza,” Y’shtola says, attempting to ease the tension. 

“And you worried for my wits!”

“As always.”

Aza snorts. “I feel  _ adored.” _

“I remember you asking me a certain question on the terrace,” Y’shtola comments, acting casual despite the anxious tilt of her ears. “What was it again?”

“May I kiss you?”

Her smile morphs to something mischievous when she says, “You may.”

Aza fumbles for a moment, scrubbing Feo Ul’s magic from her face to lean in and very gently place a kiss on Y’shtola’s lips. She leans back, intending to take some time to process such developments when Y’shtola places a hand on the back of her head and leans in for another. She flushes brightly, but leans into it. “We should be getting back,” she whispers, torn between asking for further kisses and getting the rest they both need so dearly. 

“We should be, yes,” Y’shtola replies, stepping back but taking Aza’s hand all the same. She tugs gently and begins walking. Aza follows as if in a trance. 

She can’t believe it. Y’shtola likes her. Her?  _ Really? _ It is so thoroughly surreal, she wonders if the fae illusion was truly broken when she threw her shoe (which is now permanently missing, unfortunately). They walk together toward the Bookman’s Shelves and she kicks off her other shoe. The grass is soft and soothing against the soles of her feet. Y'shtola follows suit, holding hers by the heels and sighing in relief. 

They wander back slowly, the kick of adrenaline from their initial escape having long since faded. Il Mheg at night is less so  _ silent  _ and more so  _ quiet.  _ They can speak without feeling too loud. The wind laughs between trees and ruffles the meadows into seas of gently waving pink. Even the wildlife that crawl from the woodwork to expel outsiders are sleeping. They tiptoe past a few drowsy faeries and try to silence the rustling of their clothing as they cut past.

They talk at times and enjoy a comfortable silence in others. It is wonderfully comfortable and  _ normal.  _ They’ve done this before, though farther apart and with more longing looks. It isn’t really all that different and it still feels world apart. Aza can lean over and lean her head on Y’shtola’s shoulder if she so pleased. Y'shtola rubs gentle circles on the back of her hand with her thumb. 

It feels  _ perfect.  _

If the fae were to preserve anything from the night, she wishes it could be this. She could revel in this feeling more than any party. She  _ wants  _ to. 

“What’s on your mind?” Y’shtola asks. “You’re smiling more than I have ever seen.”

“I like this,” Aza replies, voice a shade away from reverent. “I like  _ you.” _

Y’shtola steps a little closer and says, “And I you.”

“I am happy we can have this,” Aza admits. “I feared… I feared many things, since coming to the First. I feared losing you. As a friend, as a companion, as one of the living. Thank you, Y’shtola, for loving me.”

The laugh that follows her words is music to her ears. Y’shtola squeezes her hand and whispers, “I feared the same for you. That we can walk as such is more unbelievable than an unending party, if you can believe it.”

“I can. I feel much the same.”

They share a look before Y’shtola snickers, attempting to hide her mirth. “I just noticed you have a little something in your hair.” She reaches up and picks something from amongst the black strands. She holds it up. “Your Lovely Branch left you a twig. I assume it has been there all night.”

Aza groans. “What would I do without you?”

“Perish, probably.”

“Too true."

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on:  
> Twitter [@khirimochi](https://twitter.com/khirimochi) OR [@TheHolyBody (NSFW)](https://twitter.com/TheHolyBody)  
> Tunglr @[Main](https://kiriami.tumblr.com) OR @[FFXIV Imagines](https://ffxivimagines.tumblr.com)


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